*at 5’s “restaurant”*

5: What can I get for you?

Me: Tacos.

5: We’re not Italian.

Me: Tacos aren’t Italian.

5: We’re Mexican.

Me: Great! Can I have some tacos then?

5: We don’t have tacos.

I think this restaurant is having an identity crisis.

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When I die I really hope that as a ghost I can travel and not be stuck in one place. I have people to scare and some I want to see naked.


Dear Google Maps,

Don’t insult me by telling me to head “southwest”. If I knew where southwest was, I wouldn’t be using you.



Me in the future: Son, you’re going to go far.
Son, fiddling with the catapult straps: I question your judgment daily.



Homemade hand sanitizer, just like Mama used to make.


If a girl texts you and asks if you think she’s fat and you try to respond “Nooo” autocorrect changes it to “Moo” so that’s pretty cool.


*at snowman mortuary*
Ma’am was your husband’s wish to be liquified or broken into chunks and thrown at the people he hated?